


The Owl and The Angel

by AmaranthTalmage



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, American Civil War, Blood and Gore, Drug Use, F/F, Graphic Description, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Novel, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Texas, Vasquez and Faraday are friends, magic and voodoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthTalmage/pseuds/AmaranthTalmage
Summary: The Owl has haunted Goodnight for too long. He can't keep looking over his shoulder, Billy reminds him to look forward and when he does, fate seems to step in his path whether he wants it or not.Or: Goodnight FINALLY gets to confront his damned Owl!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was a labor of love. This is where I first learned to love these two cowboys. I'm proud and excited to present my magnus opus for the world to enjoy!  
Each historical mark, each year and landmark was painstakingly researched to come up with the most accurate fictional piece i could, and a chance to depict the beauty of this state I call home. It's a Texan reenactor's story, y'all!  
Let me know if translations are needed.

** _Texas, April 1885_ **

If there were an abundance of things in small, dusty Texas towns, it was men who lacked for entertainment.

The state had come alive during Reconstruction, and to Goodnight Robicheaux's horror, many of the newly arrived settlers consisted of Union soldiers. The years after the Civil War were fragile, and the remaining Confederate sympathisers and Texas Revolution veterans were only happy to make trouble for those new troops put in place in an attempt to keep peace. They had been brought to enforce a law the veterans couldn't bring themselves to accept as their own after the terror of Santa Anna. It was natural for them to fight back, exhausted of others attempting to press their ideas of law and justice upon them, and though tired, lacked nothing in the will to fight back. There were those few Confederates that didn't give Goodnight a second look for his grey frock coat, but he could always feel the glares burning through the thick, weathered wool when he happened by a group of Yanks. It sickened him to think that it was Billy Rocks' presence that saved him. He couldn't fool himself, Billy had saved his life more times than he could remember. Every time he screamed his fear into the night, every time he cowered in some anonymous saloon in one of the many nameless towns they'd wandered through, Billy was there. Time would go by where Billy would save his life every night, weeks at a stretch, and he had grown to accept this, though begrudgingly.

This time, it felt cheap, and that ever present rock in his stomach grew colder with every stare. None of them would address the Johnny Reb standing side by side with a minority in fair equality. A Confederate of high distinction, in the years of the War of Northern Aggression, would never fall so far from self-entitled grace as to befriend someone so blatantly different from himself. Even if any of them made it a point to address some lingering racism they themselves held, Goody would fall back to silence, too aware of what his ill-gotten moniker would dredge up against Union men. He felt sick that he had to leave Billy to defend himself in those moments, though the Korean knife-fighter was all too well equipped to hold his own. He'd held no fear in this fact since he had found the fierce man surrounded by bodies in Gruene, Texas, covered in blood that belonged mostly to the men who had dared to question, somewhat violently, his desire for a drink.

Billy didn't miss the signs. Decades had passed since the lithe assassin had been spared the eyes of the law, in partnering with Goodnight Robicheaux. In that Texas bar, the man watched as Billy defeated five men easily, and considering the warrant he'd held in is pocket, decided to buy the exhausted Korean man a drink instead of bringing him in for the reward. Since that unlikely partnership, he'd learned every twitch, every glance, every tremor. He'd memorized the laughs and when they were genuine, and when they were just a mask that hid every nightmare that simmered just below the surface. Those nightmares only increased after their battle in Rose Creek. It also happened in every city they encountered Union soldiers as Goodnight smiled and nodded, ever the pleasant gentleman, even in the face of what was once the enemy. Those nights, Billy held him through his tears and warded away the Owl that had haunted him since the war. Billy was his rock, his foundation, a safe place to return to when the fears finally faded away under his careful touch. It was Billy who would chase away that Owl, the gruesome culmination of the thousands of dead eyes glaring at the Cajun from the many battlefields that had been soaked in the blood of too many sons and brothers. It was in the sparse boarding house rooms or nights around bonfires far from civilization where he expelled those feathered visions from a trembling, helpless hero of battle. It was only a few weeks since their meeting when the usually loquatious veteran had become quiet and broody, startling at every sudden sound or movement as if he were expecting gunfire from every direction. Billy watched as he drank himself into unconsciousness that night and writhed like he had been shot beneath his blanket, howling into the darkness in panic. Cool and stoic, Billy had taken him by the shoulders then, only for Goodnight to melt into him and cry himself back to sleep. It was awkward, but Billy accepted it without reservations as if it were just another truth in his life. He had taken to unfurling his bedroll next to him after a while, especially when he could see Goody's fear bubbling to the surface in social situations, and when he awoke to an arm around his waist one night, the peacefully sleeping soldier wrapped around him, he was surprised to feel it wasn't exactly undesired. While he had promised to help keep the man safe, Billy felt a deeper devotion stir within him and though Goody reacted with apprehension at his actions then, the other quelled his fear with a simple and sweet kiss on his sweated brow. 

_'So many years', _Billy quietly sighed as they looked down upon the tiny Texas town, settled there by Germans looking for peace away from the turmoil of their own homeland. There would be a shooting contest, he was sure. There always was, with drunken cowboys driving cattle through, or traveling somewhere between east and west. They hadn't seen too much Union action in this area, and Billy felt a little lighter for it as he moved his horse closer to where Goodnight had stopped to look over the settlement. He could see the fears rising before they even had a chance to move to the surface behind the affable demeanor. Reaching out, he took the Cajun's hand in his, threading his fingers through as their knees brushed.

Goody looked haunted, his eyes hollow and wide as he turned to look back at him. Billy offered a rare secret smile that the Cajun knew was reserved only for him, and he couldn't help but return it with a sad smile of his own. "I'm alright, cher," he offered.

"I know better," Billy said softly. Goody knew that, too. "The Union isn't here. These people tend to prefer their own peace keeping. And if there's any trouble, their Comanche friends aren't too far."

Goody huffed, part amusement, part disbelief that it could be so easy. "Would feel a little easier if OUR Comanche friend were here."

Billy squeezed the hand he held a little tighter. "Last I heard, Sam and he were on a bounty around here somewhere. A chance we could run into them. But not the Union. They're busy further south."

They both knew it. It might have been easier to handle states closer to Virginia and subdue sympathisers there, but Texas was still a fledgling state, a massive one full of people that didn't take to being told how to live. The Texas Revolution had shown proof of how hard men would fight for their rights, and the powers that be didn't have as tight a grasp in a land known for rebellion. Outlaws and rebels wandered the many trails and filled the newborn towns with their rowdy behavior. The Reconstruction had little affect on them, and many still actively fought for an ideal that had shown to be nothing but bloody and cruel, beyond their right to live as they pleased. Texans weren't known for giving in to orders, even new Texans like the German settlers who really were a peaceable type. Goody knew that he would, if someone gave his name, be revered in towns like that, but while he felt relieved that he would be welcome, someone would inevitably trade stories about his wartime feats, and it spooked him worse than a regiment in dark blue.  
Sam Chisolm lied, just as he'd lied when the final ink on paper had dried, conceding the war. He had lied around bonfires they shared while they hunted bounties. He had lied in Rose Creek. The war wasn't over. It would never be over, not for men like Goodnight Robicheaux.

Billy reached forward with his spare hand, still holding the reins of his own mount, and turned Goody's face to him with his palm against the rough skin and stubble, and his lover leaned into the soft hand. He closed his eyes and sighed, understanding the shelter Billy offered in that gentle touch. "Goody...." he breathed. "It'll be alright. I'll be there. You know I'd never let anything happen."

At his words, the muscles in Goodnight's shoulders clenched a little less, but all tenseness wouldn't leave them, not until they could lock themselves away in a boarding room or make it further out into the wild, where Billy could hold him and share lazy, comforting kisses until his raven haired lover could chase the damn Owl from his dreams once more. "I know you will be, mon amour. I know... I just can't help but..."

Billy squeezed the hand he held again, his other hand slipping to the pommel of his saddle in an attempt to get the anxious animal to still. "Believe in me."

Goodnight's eyes shot open and bore into the younger man with a burning gaze of disbelief. "Can you possibly think, ma vie, that I never did?" he sighed.

One more clasp of the hand he held, and Billy let it go, brushing the man's thigh before returning to his own, and he flashed a wide grin, his teeth flashing in the sunlight. His voice was a thick purr in his throat, deep and comforting. "Good. Then come on, I'll buy you a drink," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the town, then spurring his horse into movement.

The Cajun watched him and his horse as they lazily sauntered down the dusty path towards town, and Billy flashed that same smile over his shoulder, a dare. He was right. He trusted Billy not just with his life, but his dreams, his fears, and his heart. Goody had an advantage of at least five years over his companion, maybe more. He was still a young man when he left the war in 1862, a veteran at the tender age of 23. Billy had never disclosed his age, but had always asserted that Goodnight was older than him, and that was the answer he stuck to whenever asked. At some time, he gave up asking, and after a while, it no longer mattered. Where Billy went, he would always follow and would never leave his side again, a promise made in the fierce heat of battle in a burned out bell tower hundreds of mile and nights away but still fresh and bloody when he closed his eyes. Billy was there with him as they pecked off the Blackstone riders that raced after Joshua Faraday on his fateful mission to destroy the Gatlin gun. Billy was there for every night afterward. He couldn't help but smile to himself to think that through the hell they'd both endured, Billy was still there. With a nod, he spurred his horse into a canter to catch up with his love to return the smile, now a warmer, more genuine gesture.

Billy was right, as he often was. The town was friendly to outsiders, just as much as they were with the many residents that milled about. At first, Goody was overwhelmed with the custom, but a hot meal of German fare and a few of the very fine beers they brewed themselves was able to push the ghosts in the Cajun's mind into silence. The town was eager enough to enjoy a dare in a shooting contest, Goody boasting of his friend's gift in the ring, and it was simple to arrange in one of the local corrals. Silently, Billy went to work, and downplayed his skills in the first few matches, only to sweep the competition in the end. The townspeople were good natured about the contest, and even bought the victor and his manager a few beers. For them, it was a simple joy to see such a show, and even the competition was impressed and honored to have the opportunity to play against the Korean.

Billy was taken aback more than Goody, to find a Texas town so welcoming to outsiders, even to him. When he'd faced so many men who took exception to his desire for a drink, it had been in Texas. The state left little in the way of good experiences for him, yet here, he was accepted easily. The unease he felt was well placed, but it was easy to see the relaxation in the man's shoulders as the night wore on and the beer flowed openly. With no Union soldiers present, the calm and good cheer spread to Goodnight, and he felt a little less intimidated by the townspeople. Not wanting to spoil his lover's evening, he quietly slipped to the bar and with no trouble, was able to bargain a room upstairs which he then retired to, saddlebags over his shoulder. When Billy caught a glimpse of him, he met those deep golden eyes with a tired smile in an unspoken conversation, bidding the man to enjoy his audience while he retired for the evening.

When Billy finally joined him in their room, he found Goody stretched across one of the two beautifully constructed beds. The German craftsmiths in the area took pride in their work, and the room was a fine example of their attention to detail with it's handmade furniture, it's carefully embroidered curtains, and well made mattresses. There were two beds in the room, as usually found in the many boarding rooms they had slept in, and upon one sat their saddlebags, the Cajun was comfortably reclining in his long, loose shirt upon the other. His vest and trousers were neatly folded on the other bed and next to it, his clean clothes had been laid out nicely, ready for the next day. He held himself up on one elbow, his free hand lazily turning the pages of one of the two books Goody carried with him at all times, _Robinson Crusoe_. He must have read it a million times, but never tired of Crusoe's adventures. Billy only shook his head with a smile as he toed off his boots at the doorway, enjoying the feel of crystalline blue eyes raking over his body appreciatively. Goodnight never tired of watching the show. Billy unbuttoned his vest to lay on top of his belt and pulled his suspenders down to let his trousers fall in a dusty heap on the floor, leaving only his underpants and shirt. Goody knew the play of muscles by memory and only had to close his eyes to dream of the roll and twitch of bronzed skin tight over his body. 

"Enjoy your entourage, ma vie?" he purred, his voice hoarse with time but no less honeyed with a south Louisiana accent.

Billy's skin flushed, the blush beginning at his ears, then his sharp cheekbones, and down his neck as he pulled his shirt over his head. "I do not have an... entourage," he smiled, rolling the word awkwardly off his tongue. Years together, and neither, while eager to learn each other's language, had ever managed to be able to pronounce it smoothly.

"Deny it all you want, cher, but you had an appreciative audience."

After shedding his knife belt and laying it carefully on top of the other bed, Billy slid under the sheets and curled against Goody's back. "You talk too much," he groaned tiredly into his lover's ear.

"I'm being serious, dammit. Consider the possibility that every one of these settlers possessing of an accent have been American citizens no longer than you?" Goodnight asked, turning his head to give the other a sidelong glance as he pulled tanned arms around himself.

Billy was quiet for a few moments, pensive in his thoughts, and breathed quietly, "I have."

Goody let the space of a few heartbeats pass before he pressed on. "Well? The why the maudlin response? You find yourself in a town of fellow strangers to this land, the Germans, yet another land famed for its warriors, like Korea. Welcoming refugees of foreign lands, as they themselves hold the title of expatriate?"

The Korean sighed softly through his nose in an attempt to bury contemplation. He didn't want to dwell on the thought that his people had been thrown into cramped blocks of city without the chance to properly and legally own land. All they were allowed were dirty spaces that were deemed useless by the discerning majority. Without that influence, if given the equal chance, would his people have stretched out to the wide open country like these foreign pioneers? The idea twisted hot and angry in his gut, and it swelled at the back of his head until he had to shut his eyes against even the dull light of the room. "I'm tired, Goody. It's been a long day."

Goody conceded defeat and settled his head back against the pillow and stroked Billy's hand in gentle, wordless apology. "Alright, alright, cher, if you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine. Say, how did we make out?"

"Tonight was on the fine citizenry. Still leaves us with enough to live off of for about four weeks," Billy groaned, burrowing into his lover's back.

Goody glanced at him over his shoulder again. "Fine hotels, finer whiskey, good livin'?"

"Three days."

Goodnight was torn between asserting that his lover was either an asshole, or promising him that he'd make it the best three nights of his life, but instead sighed heavily. "Maybe we deserve pampering."

Billy lifted his head and glared down at him in both irritation and adoration. "Spoiled. Rotten."

"You are an asshole, Billy Rocks," Goody quipped. He had made up his mind. He settled against the pillow again and absently traced patterns over the arms wrapped around him. Billy twitched his fingers against the pale skin they stretched upon. "Why don't we go and check the Sheriff's Office tomorrow, see what's been posted? Been a bit since we've chased a few bounties ourselves, and it'll allow our competition to change faces. Keep the fight fresh, new shootists coming into the ring, I mean, we must be running out of rubes this far in the game."

Billy couldn't help the small smile that tickled against his lover's neck, nor could he stop his quaking shoulders as a laugh bubbled forth. Something in the man's tone struck him as hilarious, and there was no helping in being angry at Goody's enthusiasm. When he had finally pulled himself back into order, he replied, "You're the manager."

Sleep was easy to slip into, warm, contented in each other's arms. Usually, it began like this, sleepy, contented, often swaddled in bliss after exhausting themselves with the deep attention they put into drawing out each other's desire. Often these days, they were appeased just to spend the night wrapped together after long hours of social exertion. Their selfless devotion to one another hadn't died down in the decades they had riden beside each other, had only burned brighter as it evolved from fear and fascination, to curious touches, then becoming something neither could live without.

It calmed, but never dissolved the nightmares. Once, when Goody had been alone, they consumed him and he fought to drown the screams of hundreds of boys dying in bloodied fields with any alcohol he could get his hands on. He wished he could have killed that name, 'The Angel of Death', given to him by Lt Robert Conley himself in the heat of Antietam for his unerring aim. Goodnight was working hard on killing himself with drink when Billy stepped into his life and gave him focus, helped him see beyond the whiskey and the screams, and soothed them so easily and simply with just his presence.

Soothed, but could never quite destroy those dreams. Tonight, Goody woke up knee-deep in fathers and sons, layed out haphazardly in battlefields or slung in mortifying ways over the battlements. Those fences had been hastily built to shield themselves from the better supplied Union forces that were laying waste to Confederate armies, and were doing a poor job of giving shelter. Wide opened eyes were staring up at him, between hopeful or accusatory, or even in anger that he alone was standing and he hadn't saved them. The Angel of Death stood over them powerless and petrified as he stared into those unblinking faces, wide-eyed, _'Like an owls eyes,'_ he thought, when he noticed a motion sweeping low over the field. The sounds of wings beating the still air caught his attention and pulled him away from glaring helplessly at his brothers-in-arm. He watched as the Owl glided silently over the field towards him, auburn-brown wings rising to sweep at the air once more before it glided closer. Its eyes reflected a dozen colors, but most prominant, forest green, wide and unblinking and just as able to drill through him as those that surrounded him. He could see the details of it's feathers as it grew closer and he turned, trying to scramble away over bodies that littered the ground behind him. He could almost feel the claws on his shoulder and he screamed, thrashing in a desperate attempt to throw the terrifying spectre off of him. He screamed.

"Goody!"

Those claws grew softer, warmer, not claws at all. Hands.

"Goody, wake up!"

Suddenly, he could breathe, the stale air of the room filling his lungs and before he could scream again, a hand pressed down over his mouth.

"Goodnight!!" Billy growled loudly through his clenched teeth, slinging his leg over the fighting Cajun to hold him to the bed as he straddled his waist. "Goddammit, Goodnight, wake up!!"

Eyes wide, he could see, he could feel the bed beneath him, the man on top of him, the hand pressed to his mouth to stifle another scream in the thin-walled room, fearful of waking neighbors. He could hear Billy now. He could smell his sweat, the sweet scent of tobacco and opium, whiskey and local beer. His hands shook as they grasped at the man's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises and as the hand slipped from his mouth, he sucked in a breath like he had been drowning. Maybe he had. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe it would have been a better death than being dragged to the noose by blue-coated devils in punishment for crimes during the war. Maybe.

Billy gently wrapped his hands over the ones holding his shoulders, white knuckled in fear, and slowly pried the fingers loose, refusing to acknowledge the pain. It would only have made the situation worse, for Goodnight to know that he had caused Billy any hurt, and he absolutely would not allow the fractured Cajun any more agony than he caused himself.

"Shhh, yeon-in," Billy murmured, slowly moving his hands to Goody's shoulders to collect him into a tight embrace. "Shhh. I got you. You're here, you're with me. You're here now..."

It never mattered if the Union soldiers were after Goodnight Robicheaux. Their presence, meant to maintain peace in the Reconstruction, only magnified his guilt and brought the Owl with them wherever they went. But he'd had his nightmare, he had screamed his terror out against his lover's chest and sobbed until he sat limp against him with his arms trembling tightly around Billy. Billy raked his bare hands through the sandy hair, tugging gently at the sweat soaked strands until Goody's breath calmed enough that he felt it was safe to let go. Goody let him stand and sank weakly against the headboard as Billy stepped to the pile of clothes by the unused bed to pull out the cigarette case. He shut his eyes as the room flared brightly with the strike of a match as Billy lit two of those tightly rolled opium and tobacco cigarettes and settled himself down again to pull Goodnight against him. It was a pleasant haze to dissolve into, in dizzied repose against each other, depending on each other.

There would be no more nightmares tonight.

* * *

Goodnight appraised the walls of the Sheriff's office with a crooked grin. Of course, the building would have to have been better built than the quickly constructed stores and houses that surrounded it. A jail with weak walls would only have been folly, though the image of a convict just walking through poorly built slats and barely hanging bars did bring a smile to his face, if only for the sheer silliness of the picture. The walls here were thick, shaved pillars pieced together with skill and purpose to prevent escape, and it was clear that the three cells that stood empty behind the Sheriff's desk were another work of pride and skill. The bars were thick and blackened to prevent rust, and evenly spaced to prevent more than an arm through.

Germans were beautiful craftsmen, Goodnight concluded, but not for the first time since their arrival the day before.

"Anything good?" Billy said as he stepped into the building behind him, running an appraising look over the few posters that Goodnight hadn't been paying much attention to. His mind had been wondering about, too scattered by the gnawing thought that the next hoofbeats might be a regiment of Union riding into town. Billy had been readying the horses, making sure saddles were tight and stores replenished before they set off for the new town, and now that chore had been done, he joined Goodnight before the five wanted posters. He couldn't miss the way Goody's eyes flashed back and forth from the door to the wall, and he lay a comforting hand upon the Cajun's shoulder to draw his attention.

Absently, Goodnight shook his head and focused back on the wall. "Nah, not really, cher. Not much by way of riches. But then, this life has never leant itself to extravagance, nor do I expect to find our fortunes pinned to a wall by way of criminals." His eyes glanced over the amounts law officials had inked heavily and boldly onto the pictures in dramatic sizes, meant to capture one's greed and hold it. Goody had never been able to make peace with bounty hunting, not with his distaste for physical altercation. He imagined somewhere, his own poster was pasted to a wall as he knew Billy's once was, but Rose Creek had convinced everyone that the Korean was dead. He supposed that they believed him dead as well and some days, he was glad for it. Other days, he wished for it.

Billy reached forward and smoothed up a poster that had come loose at the top corners, the amount of capture higher than the others. "What about this one? Good money. Says he's local, stays in Texas."

Goody nodded solemnly as he studied the face inked skillfully on the paper. Sharp chin, powerful jaw, proud nose, piercing eyes, it was a face that he could memorize easily. His eyes fell to the listed prize, two grand, and they widened. "Damn, that could fetch us a rather good living for a while, mon amour," he said softly with a bit of sadness to his voice.

Billy caught it right away and gave a gentle squeeze to shoulder he held. "We're not gonna find anything on these walls for us, Goody," he replied, his voice soft and dark, calming.

Goody flashed a look to him, a silent warning that bid him not to speak any further or he would lose composure himself. With the Union taking over Texas, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he saw his own face on this wall or another like it, and the only thing that could save him was the mention of his moniker to some Confederate sympathizers. That name that twisted in his gut and only left cold nausea and tasted of murder might be the only thing that kept him from a noose. He shook his head to clear it, and Billy caught the motion, reaching into his jacket to pull out a cigarette.

As the man lit the cigarette, Goodnight looked at the poster they were appraising. The price was twice the amount than any other man on the wall, and he tried to flood his thoughts with the pleasant idea that, with two grand, he could give Billy a comfortable life for a while and swaddle them both in luxury. "Alright. We'll take this one. What's it say he's done, cher? You're closer than me."

Billy pulled the poster from the wall and held it spread in his hands. It was unlike the others that had actual photos of the criminals upon them, but it was very detailed, the work of an artist. Other than that, it was a simple poster, a statement of few words. The word WANTED was boldly printed across the top to gather one's attention. "Let's see. Wanted by US Marshals, dead or alive, five foot eight, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Murder and theft, brutally slain men across south east Texas, known to frequent bars and wanted for questioning in the mysterious deaths of three farmers in the Houston area." He looked up at Goody, one brow raised in question.

Goodnight himself was deep in consideration, attempting to give life to the image on the paper, trying to see the man now standing before them with his powerful features. "A closer ride than these others, I imagine. Does it say anything else?"

Billy took the cigarette from Goody's hand, took the last drag and dropped it to the floor to stomp on it before picking up the butt to put in the trash. "Says, last seen in Mink?"

Goody huffed, furrowing his brow in concentration as he tried to remember where the town might be. He turned on his heel, knowing well that Billy would follow. "Sure a murder around Houston is enough to get the local dander in a ruff. Never met a Texan who's passion didn't rival any Louisiana man's. Alright then, we'll see if Lady Fortune shines down upon us in Her Tender Mercies and allows us easy capture of this murderous blackguard."

Billy folded the paper and stuffed the square of paper in the pocket of his vest, then followed the Cajun out of the stout building. The streets were busy in the still-cool April morning. Wagons filled the streets as men and women traveled about their daily chores, children on their way to school, men riding into town to take care of various kinds of business, and many turned their heads to tip their hats to Billy. It turned his stomach a little, to have so much positive recognition. It wasn't something he was used to. "Let's get the hell out of here," he mumbled, his boots heavy as he stepped to his horse.

Goodnight passed him a worrisome glance. "You alright, cher?"

Billy shrugged it off as he pulled himself up into the saddle and watched as Goody settled upon his mount, and they began to ride slowly out of town. He tipped his hat towards anyone he happened to lock eyes with, forcing a smile to the citizens of a town that welcomed him. He couldn't help but shudder at the uncomfortable feeling, and Goody caught the shift in his lover's body, but when he was finally able to lock eyes with Billy, the only answer he got was a tight lipped shake of his head.

They could finally see the end of the town's main street that began to narrow into the trail that lead out into the country beyond the bustle of civilization when Billy spoke. "Goody..."

"Yes, ma vie?"

"Isn't Lady Fortune usually Faraday's thing?" he asked, the corner of his lip twisting in that gentle half smile that he reserved only for Goodnight.

Goody laughed. "That's Lady Luck."

"Isn't that the same thing?" He smiled openly now, showing his teeth in a wide grin as they passed the last building and, spurring his horse into a faster gait, dared the Cajun into a race into the wide open Texas plains that surrounded the growing town.

Spring in Texas was a blessing to see, where the usual soft waves of green were transformed into rolling hills of blue, yellow, red, rainbows of wildflowers reaching towards an endlessly vivid blue sky. The occasional puff of cloud danced across the sun to provide a break from the ceaseless warmth it provided as it chased the chill of morning away. The petrichor perfume of the wind freshened their hair as they raced further into the country, chasing away any ill feelings that they both may have caught from the well-meaning town. Thundering hooves matched the almost giddy beat of their hearts, and Billy couldn't help but laugh loudly, turning to see Goody chasing after him, the sun glinting off the single gold tooth as he mirrored his Korean lover's grin. There was peace in this simple freedom, peace for them both from past Hells they might have endured to find each other on the other side of their perspective wars. They had survived together. So much was lost in the fire, but they had stood strong, rising above to find each other through the ashes.


	2. A Shared Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cup of tea and some charming conversation after a light heart attack, and we see our intrepid adventurers settle down for the evening.

Warm, welcoming dawn stretched over the rolling green hills that were the border between a blistering and unforgiving desert and the fertile green trees that gathered in thickets, tight together like tall green lovers sharing sweet secrets in the breeze of the April morning. The cold dew had melted away on the waving green fields of ryegrass and wheat, dotted occasionally with fields of cotton or the presence of large, sleepy cattle with their heads bowed to their task of eating.

Goodnight took a deep, lustful breath as he took in the sweet smell of the fields, a fond memory of home burning in his chest as he let out a satisfied sigh. He reined in his horse to a stop atop one of the rolling hills and gazed over the verdant fields with a wistful gleam glittering in those sky-blue eyes, his face awash in a childhood glee that he reserved only for those trips into the deeper lands of Louisiana. Billy loved looking at that man, his man, that face reserved for sweet dreams with his sandy brown head resting upon his own chest as he stroked soft devotions into pale, scarred skin. Alone in the yet-untamed countryside, he could enjoy the unbridled harmony upon Goody's countenance and soak in the Cajun's second-hand delight.

"Ah, this!" Goodnight exclaimed suddenly, joyfulness in his brilliant smile, gesturing wide with an arm. "This glorious bounty, these fields of green that stretch out forever, a sweet blessing of Demeter's own bosom now that the winter has been driven back to Hell where it belongs."

  
Billy grinned at his expressive manner, catching Goody's eye as he kneed his horse nose to tail with the Cajun's. "Are you going to gesticulate so annoyingly during this whole trip?" he asked as the corners of his lips curled, his tongue tripping over the impressive word he had learned from many of Goodnight's sermons.

Goodnight grinned brightly as the smaller man bumped his knee against his own, and he turned to take in that face he loved, glowing in the morning light as it grew, the sun barely peaking over the next hill on the trail. He sighed again, fondness glowing in his eyes as he reached to run his fingers against Billy's cheek. How he loved those cheekbones, the dimples that were for him alone when he passed a secret smile. "Look at you, picking up my vocabulary," he said, his voice soft but amused. "Too much time around me, I suppose."

Billy reached out and put a gloved hand over the one on his face and leaned into the touch before turning to place a soft kiss upon the calloused palm. "Never too much time around you. Never enough time," he said simply with one of those secret smiles, before turning his horse to face east, the direction they had originally been heading.

Goody straightened and squared his shoulders, settling in his saddle with an air befitting aristocracy. "Well, I suppose I'll have to talk more, make up for time and aggrandize your terminology, if I may be so honored to be the source of your formal education."

Billy groaned with mock irritation and rolled his eyes, watching Goody over his shoulder. While he never tired of the man's gravelly voice, sometimes the companionable quiet was enough to fill any void that would normally have existed. When once it had been him alone, there was nothing but the hollow silence between towns, and even that had grated on his nerves. Goody had served to bring that closure with his endless intelligence, a seemingly boundless encyclopedia of knowledge which bespoke a formal education beyond a life of comfort or war. 

It was a pleasurable silence between them as they listened to the cadence of hooves beating a slow, steady rhythm to the tune of every birdsong Spring in Texas was able to supply. Billy couldn't fault the man for his love of the countryside; he couldn't find any memory of his long distant home that was as colored as these rolling hills. Not that his home wasn't green and full of life. The Jeoson that he remembered was, in many places, full of not just hills but mountains, snowcapped in the distance over rice fields and brilliantly fertile pastures. It was a good memory, one of the few he had of home that he could recall through the haze of time. The rest of his memory was clogged with a hundred busy markets and docks, so many of them even in America that they all blended together to give him an uneasy feeling. In these places, it didn't matter if he were Jeoson, Chinese, or Japanese, they were all crammed into small, disjointed spaces by a country that saw everyone that resembled him as the same. It was a painful truth, racism, and something that he had waged war against until a fool in a Texas bar saw him differently. The only thing Billy was happy for was the momentary lull in his partners never-ending repertoire of poetry and prose. The peace allowed him to enjoy the flora and fauna that his distant memory couldn't supply.

The silence was a joy for Goodnight to behold. Even if the last town were welcoming, he couldn't find it in himself to breathe easy in the company of strangers. While he enjoyed the moments of a good bed and a warm meal, even the time to fit in a hot bath, nothing compared to the freedom that he felt with Billy at his side, no restraint, no judgments, and no extra voices to join the ones that already spoke these ills within his own mind. Out in the country, it was just them, free to live life as they desired. The weather was enjoyable. Summers in the South were blistering, wilting plants as the sun bore down unrelenting from the piercing blue sky and turning countryside to dust and scorched plantlife that begged for just one drop. It was stifling enough in Louisiana, he recalled, with the humid heat sucking life from everyone and everything as the sun turned the bayous to steam. Here, it could be humid, but times were that the heat beat down to bake the earth and steal whatever moisture it offered. So in these few weeks, in a season that seemed to squeeze itself between declarations that Spring had begun and the first heatwave of summer, Goodnight honored the newborn life with pastoral and reverent silence. It was a moment to reflect on the fleeting beauty; the glory that surrounded them lived only briefly in the weeks between the last frost and the first heatwave. It gave him a chance to press it into his mind to try and smother the fields of blood that persisted in his nightmares, and instead of crimson, to offer up bluebonnets, dandelions, and Indian paintbrushes. In his mind, he could compose sonnets to the landscape, to the moments he held precious. He took a moment to study the image of Billy set against the painted backdrop, the dusky gray of his shirtsleeves rolled up to bare the bronzed skin he loved to spend hours laying his lips and hands against. He watched the smooth roll of his lover's body as he moved like one with his horse, shoulders set straight as silken black hair fluttered over them in the breeze. He couldn't help the glow of fondness that crept over his features, but had no care to wipe the expression off of his face when Billy turned back to look at him.

"What?" Billy asked when he caught the affection on Goodnight's face.

Goody only shook his head and turned his gaze back out onto the fields around them. "Composing, ma cherie, composing."

Billy cocked an eyebrow at him in question, a slow smile spreading across his sharp features and baring his teeth. "You better not be composing about me."

"And why not?" Goody asked, his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout and brow furrowed in mock insult. "Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?"

"Dammit, don't start with that," Billy sighed, rolling his eyes as he looked away.

The Cajun grinned and spurred his mount a little faster, catching up with Billy who wasn't too far in front of him. They had been riding side by side, but Goody had been so enraptured by their surroundings that he had lagged back, allowing his lover to move ahead of him by a few yards. "Are you not worthy of such praise and honor, as to have your name sung on a million lips for the foreseeable future? In song, in prose, in poetry, you are indeed worthy! Billy!" he barked loudly, his arm swinging out in a wild gesture. "Possessing of silken ropes of raven hair, your eyes cast a million and more desires, resonating so brightly the stars above and seducing such a broken heart that the pieces, though impossibly scattered, were entrusted unto your immortally ingenious fingers to mend, and indeed you have! Evanescent soul!"

Billy lowered his head, shaking with a quiet laughter. "Oh my God, Goodnight, stop. You're ridiculous." He couldn't remove the painfully stretched grin, and no matter how he shook his head in exasperation, he couldn't dismiss the blush that colored his cheeks.

Goody caught the glow upon Billy's cheekbones, how it spread to his ears as the peaked from his hat and spread to his neck, though it might also have been a natural color from years of sun exposure. "Don't you think you're worth that, if only to me?"

Billy glanced at him from the corner of his deep brown eyes. "I think you talk too much."

Goodnight's chuckle stopped short with a sound like the abrupt choking of a hanged man. Billy reined his mount to a halt and turned in time to see Goody's face drain of color, a look of horror replacing the placid joy that had colored his morning with bliss. "Goody?" The only answer Billy received was a piteous whimper and a slow shake of the Cajun's head. He called to him again, turning his horse to step to his lover's side. "Hey. Goodnight. You with me?"

Goodnight's breathing was shallow and quick around slack lips as panic begin to fill his senses and cement him in place, unable to either flee or fight. The hand in which he held his reins tightened until his knuckles turned white, the blunt nails of his other hand digging into his right thigh. Billy followed his line of sight to an image upon the next hill, black against the rising sun. As he focused, he could see an oddly shaped carriage, and beside it, an image he couldn't quite make out. It was clear that Goodnight had seen something that terrified him, something that had caused him to begin stammering in strangled French.

Billy lay a hand on Goodnight's knee, squeezing in quiet comfort even as his own ire began to tighten every muscle in his body. Goodnight couldn't hear those gentle words that would routinely soothe and placate the nightmares that shook him in the night. When he jerked his head in Billy's direction, finally seeking out those dark, stern eyes that reminded him, grounded him when he needed it most, the most he could manage was a choked whimper. That never-ending nightmare that haunted his nights was present in the stormy sea of his eyes, wide, rimmed in white and terrified like a horse in war. Billy could see the dirty trenches, the ghost of gunpowder and death in Goodnight's trembling features.

"Stay here," Billy growled, turning his horse towards the image on the next hill.

  
Goodnight shook his head, clearing away the fog of death that clung ever present in his mind. "W...wait, what?" he stuttered, finally hearing his voice over the roar of memory. "Wait... no..." he choked out, grabbing at Billy and catching at the cloth on his thigh. "What're you doing?"

Billy would have smiled at that Cajun accent and how it rolled strongly over the few words, but now he donned the fierce mask he had always bore, the one he had come to America and been forced to wear and served him best in a fight. He lay a hand upon the pale, shaking one clutching his thigh and squeezed comfortingly before gently prying Goody's fingers loose. "I'll be back."

Before Goody could argue, Billy had spurred his horse into a fast gallop towards the slow moving image, pleading shouts following him as he sped down the worn dirt path towards the shadow. His horse kicked up divets of weighty, soft dirt as he flew towards the dark silhouette that had broken his love's peace. His chest burned with anger at having to see that divine face fall in dread. Too many nights, he would spend all he had left rocking Goody out of those memories, pacifying, smoothing out the lines and the scars along his pale body with bare hands and lips, and lust when all else had failed him. His teeth gritted painfully, making the muscles in his jaw play in a furious display as he crested another hill. The image grew clearer, it's outline no longer a wavering haze against the rising sun, and he could finally make out what had shocked Goody into a near foaming stupor.

The wagon was oddly shaped, and he couldn't recall ever seeing one of the sort. It was of a standard width at the bottom with sides that curved outward towards a slightly bowed top, a curious construct of wood. He could see a circular window that caught the occasional shift of light, as if caught an odd sunbeam from within. A massive horse pulled the wagon, and the reins disappeared into the silhouette of a robed image. It was hooded against the chill of the morning, and looking for all intents and purposes like one of the many incarnations of Death from any number of books Goodnight had entertained.

Billy felt his stomach drop, ice cold running in his veins. This image wasn't real. It couldn't be.

As Billy grew closer, he could hear the light strains of a feminine voice upon the breeze, and he slowed his panting mount, loping across the ground as the sound grew clearer. He could recognise a woman's words, and he caught his breath in time to see the wagon and the individual beside it come to a halt. Slowly, the hand untasked with the reins, hidden by the long sleeves of the robe, raised with an open palm towards the sky in a show of peace.

A hand on his pistol, Billy slowed to a trot. He could see now the intricate detail of the wagon, the roof elongated to cover whoever the driver might be, held up by delicately carved posts. The window he had spotted before was circular, composed of brightly colored panes that glittered when the wagon moved. The wagon itself was richly colored, lacquered red to protect against weather, the top rounded and vividly painted in a bright sky blue. He cocked his head in curiosity, even in his anger, still simmering with upset at Goody's sudden turn of temperament. He closed the few yards between him and the wagon quickly, the motionless and shrouded individual still holding a delicate hand outstretched peacefully. He stopped no less than ten feet from the wagon and it's companion, his palm itching anxiously as he wrapped a hand around the handle of one of his knives.

"Show yourself," he growled deeply from behind clenched teeth. Even the words itched, the oddity of the situation having stopped him from his usual behavior of attacking first and asking questions later.

The individual made a show of moving slowly as the open hand fingered the edge of the deep hood and pulled back, head lowered, to reveal a tight auburn knot shot with strands of silver. It was held in place by a pin that looked suspiciously like his own, glinting silver in the morning sun. She raised her head to look at him, a smile in place that creased her careworn but not un-handsome face. Her eyes seemed to glow gaily with a forest green, dark like the thickets that grew together in secret Louisiana groves. Her skin was gently tanned and crinkled with a smile that served to disarm him but a little in his simmering rage, suddenly faced with a woman.

"And a good morning to you, too!" she answered cheerfully. "I would much appreciate it, as would Samson here," she said, gesturing to the horse, "... if you didn't kill me. How else would he eat?"

He cocked his head again in confusion, rocked by her candid manner. "Who are you?"

"A Gypsy..." she answered simply. "Trying to make my way in a prejudiced world." She leaned forward slightly, a look of mischief glittering in her eye as a crooked grin split her soft features. "YOU would know about THAT, wouldn't you?"

BIlly sat bolt upright in his saddle, his jaw setting again. "I asked who you are, not what," he said shortly, his patience ending directly upon the next hill, his heart still sitting in the saddle with his terrified Cajun. His stomach turned at her words, too close to home, and as sharp as the pin that held her hair, catching an unnoticeable breath in his throat.

Her face faded into one of a deep sadness as she looked out down the road before her, and he suddenly regretted asking a lady in such a way. She took a deep breath and sighed heavily, her head lowering for a moment as she seemed to find the words. "Just a traveler." She flashed a sad smile, her eyes blinking slowly as she thought out her measured words. "There's no life for people like me further east." The hand that held the reins slowly moved to rest on the horse's flank, smoothing the patient beast's fur. "Samson was just as turned out as myself. Together, we come west to find a new life." The horse flicked it's tail lazily and nickered. "Isn't that what we all want?"

Billy studied her sincere features, the sweep of her long lashes upon full cheeks, the gentle curve of her full lips, the fall of a single lock of silver-auburn as it fell across her too-wise eyes. Her quiet question echoed in his mind and brought to memory the dire beginnings in this world he had suffered on the docks of San Francisco. He remembered how he had been paraded about like cattle and sold into service under false pretenses of a better life. Since escaping that painful life, he had been on the run for that better life himself, and it had taken him blood, sweat and tears to end up in it's arms in the most bizarre of circumstances.

"There's nothing further west," he said simply, his hand leaving the handle of his knife and returning to the pommel of his saddle. There was no point in remaining angry. There was a simple innocence in her manner that calmed what rage remained in his chest. She was just a settler, albeit a strange one, but those who never could find calm and comfort in the arms of established civilization were often considered different. He could tell her how many places further West had begun to resemble the East, with a touch more greed and lawlessness. It was a hard life for men, he could only imagine how difficult it would be for a diminutive gentlewoman. It would have been simple to explain to her how Indians had savaged any settlers that traveled outside of the protection of civilization, or how deserts could stretch on for weeks on end with no relief in sight, but he assumed that any who attempted the arduous journey had to have known this. The fruitful places were quickly being snatched up and settled, and land titles were difficult for anyone except a privileged few to acquire.

"Then... between east and west, surely there is something better, for anyone who knows how and where to look." she replied, a glimmer of hope in her voice, and he resolved to dismount and meet her properly, as Goodnight would have. He would have stood on honor and principal, those Southern charms never having left the roving gunman.

Billy took his reins in hand and slowly approached her, still apprehensive as everything about the encounter told him to remain on guard. That was when he heard the thundering of hooves behind him. '_Dammit, Goody, I told you to stay...' _ he thought to himself through gritted teeth, and he carefully turned to see Goodnight in a panic, flying down the hill. He could almost hear the Cajun's terrified gasps as his stallion tore into the ground when it skidded to a halt. Goody easily pulled his rifle out of it's holster and his eyes flickered fearfully between the woman and the assassin, unsure of any target that might present itself. 

Billy sighed heavily and raised his hand. "Goody, listen to me... listen to my voice..."

  
"What the hell IS this?!" Goodnight croaked, his voice shaking even as he clutched his rifle with white knuckles, his instinct brought to bear. His lip twitched of it's own accord as he fought to take in the images before him and pull his focus to the calming voice of his lover.

Billy glided to his side carefully and once there, put his hand upon Goody's thigh, spreading his fingers. He slid his hand along the length that wasn't hidden behind a long, supple riding boot. It was a gesture of intimacy that he would never have displayed in front of others, but it went a far way to catching Goodnight's attention.

The Cajun shook for a moment as he seemed to finally break the hold the ghosts of the past held on him, and he looked down into Billy's endlessly dark eyes. Trembling, he lowered the rifle, his chest heaving with each breath. "Wha... you didn't come back..." he whispered painfully, his own blue eyes white with fear.

"I know, I know, but it's okay. You're okay."

"What the hell is going on here, Billy?" he murmured through a dry swallow. "What is tha... this?"

Billy wrapped his fingers around the hands still grasping the rifle and Goody allowed those deft fingers to pull his own from the weapon slowly as he spoke, "Shh... It's okay. Just another traveller, that's all. It's okay, Goody..."

  
The woman watched silently, still stroking the massive horse harnessed into the wagon as it stamped a foot impatiently. She could hear the words, could see the emotion behind each touch, and the gaze in the Asian man's eyes as they went from cold steel to soft, brown velvet. She knew what she was seeing was an intrinsic privledge. She sighed quietly through her nose and closed her eyes, her movements unnoticed. Each step was almost out of her control.

  
Goodnight's eyes still reflected the visage of a frightened animal. His chest heaved with shaky breaths as he took Billy's hand in his own, holding it tight as if he might drown in the dire waters of his own demons. He drew a sharp breath suddenly and went still. His breath evened out into deep waves that filled his chest, his eyes became the same sea of blue sky that Billy had fallen for. His face relaxed, those sharp features resting in tranquility. Billy could feel the wave of serenity that flowed through the mounted man through the hand he held and the muscles in Billy's shoulders slowly unwound. In so many years, he could never recall the face of this man in peaceful slumber upon his chest, only awake and sitting in the saddle towering over him. This waking calm had never happened.

Confused, he looked around, and noticed the woman no longer standing at the side of her own massive black and white beast. He followed Goodnight's bewildered gaze as he looked up at the wagon and horse before him. Billy stepped around Goodnight's horse and his eyes trailed down from the man on the saddle down to his other leg, where a delicate hand trembled as it slid from Goody's thigh. Her head was bowed in reverent concentration, and he could hear a slight murmur, almost musical in the growing Spring morning.

Billy sternly reached for her shoulder, and was genuinely surprised when she jumped with a gasp.

"Sorry," she mumbled with an apologetic smile, looking up at first Goody, then Billy. "I couldn't help... but help."

Goody took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if breathing were a new sensation. He had seen his love run into the sunrise towards the cloaked myth he knew had finally come for him. Death had avoided him, busy on the fields of dying he had fled from, those sweet scented Southern live oaks coated with blood forever. No longer could he stand to be around their reaching arboreal arms, beckoning, "_Come... come home... to my eternal darkness..." _ That haunting was a faded memory suddenly, and the blood had washed away at the touch of that tiny hand upon his thigh. His only refuge had been found in the embrace of his golden knife-wielding warrior. But the deep forest green pool of her eyes when she looked upon him from the ground was enough to send him quickly dismounting to stand tall over her, sympathetic to the deeply creased sadness in her visage.

One he knew all too well.

Was she wearing now, the blood, the dying, the sweet scent of mossy great oaks and running, forever running, on her face? He knew this look.

It was his own.

Before he could forget his upbringing, he removed his hat and leveled a deep, flourished bow at her, partially Southern grace, partially fascination, and all thanks. He couldn't fathom this level of serenity that now blossomed like the season that surrounded them now, and couldn't begin to question whether or not it had been her touch.

"Madam," he stammered before regaining his composure. "M'name is Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service." With this introduction, he took her little hand, dwarfed by his own, curled her long, deft fingers until he could glance his lips across her knuckles, never breaking eye contact, and Billy could swear they sparkled with a light he hadn't seen when he curtly bowed to ladies in saloons and parlors in the many towns they'd spent nights in.

Was Billy thankful, or jealous, that his man's nightmares had been quelled for the moment, enough to warrant genuine effort in her interest instead of passing by? Something did not settle quite right with her. There was an instinct brought by many years of hardship that had made him wary of the people he met in passing, and though it prickled at the back of his mind coldly, it flared his curiosity. Even if he never learned more about her as a person, he needed to know, what had she done to his Goodnight?

She bowed her head, her face flushed with both flattery and embarrassment, a smile that showed but a flash of teeth. "I'm quite sorry. Deeply..." she began.

"Wha..." Goodnight feined ignorance, his face a mask of charm. There was that sideways smile that he flashed when he was attempting to hide something inside that begged to surge free and claim his soul, his gold tooth glinting in the morning sun. "Now why would you have anything to be sorry for, ma cherie?"

She sighed a chuckle before she looked up to him. He stood a good foot taller than her, but she showed no intimidation. "I frightened you. My appearance in the dawn, still in my morning robes," she explained. "I can see where I would look a black draped ghoul, but..." Here, she laughed, musical in it's still sad tone. But even as her brow furrowed, her lips curled with sunshine. "But really... do you think a demon would choose to be so damned short?"

Despite himself, the corners of Billy's lips curled in a small, amused smile as Goodnight threw his head back and guffawed loudly, despite his earlier fears and reservations about that dark figure cresting the hill against the growing light. Goody ran his hand through his sandy gray-flecked hair as the laughter faded, but the amusement remained. Billy watched him in wonder, those azure pools glittering with a child-like glee, and his heart swelled, though he'd never let his face show. He must always remain passive, always steel, always the warrior, suspect even as this woman bled peacefulness in her presence. 

When Goody's laugh died, he nodded and ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip. Billy's chest burned when he wet his lips, even when in company. He imperceptibly shook away those thoughts as Goody continued, "Alright, cher, alright. Now, who are you, to be alone in travel and," he looked up, taking in the vision of the brightly painted wagon and massive horse, and was calm enough to take her appearance fully, curiosity making the muscles in him hum with excitement. "... what is THAT?"

She smiled, and with a flourish, bowed deeply before him. "Who I am is, no one of consequence. My name doesn't matter, should it be the one I was blessed with, or," she seemed to shoot a sideways glance at Billy and... (did she just WINK at him??) "... the one I gave myself. Perhaps later, I'll find a name with which you can call me, but until then, allow me to introduce one of my entourage."

Goodnight smiled at her words, his breath catching in excitement when he realized that he stood in the presence of a learned woman of words and he but an eager audience awaiting a grand performance. Someone with which he could hold an intelligent conversation, someone of some intellect that could banter cooly with him. Not that Billy didn't fill his days with their secret conversations. But like a new book, he felt eager to read on as she swung her arm wide, motioning to the massive horse behind her, impatiently pawing at the ground. "This irritable but lovable beast is Samson. At least... that's the name I gave him. Who knows what his people called him, before he was taken and sold..."

  
Goodnight bowed his head, running his fingers along the edge of his hat, his long lashes hiding the sorrow that flashed momentarily in his eyes. He knew all too well that Hell, families torn apart, raped of a possible future by slavers taking what they thought was their property to sell, children crying on the stage before a crowd of bidders. Precisely the past he had been running from, since he had fought in the Confederacy to defend his home. The war had been fought under many pretenses put forth by politicians who cried for states' rights and recognition. As the years progressed, Confederate forces strained to prevent the destruction of farms and homesteads across the South as the Union forces burned their way between each state. However, there would always be one damning ideal that rose above anything the aristocrats becried, one cruelty that had tore at his soul with every shot he fired; slavery.

Billy, likewise, knew that torment, having been sold once or even twice in his past. He had no care to remember, since he had met the one man that not only understood, but swore to him that it would never happen again and kept his word. His movements, unnoticeable by most, did not escape Goody's sympathetic look of apology when he reached forward to take the reins of his mount from those talented gloved fingers. There was almost no risk in their hands brushing together almost affectionately, the most affection they would chance to show in front of anyone. Most would nod it off as being an accident.

She knew. She could smell the adoration in waves, and though she was loathe to break the mood, she smiled, opening her robes to reveal that she wore trousers, a neatly tucked in shirt, and a smart, blue brocade vest from which the brilliant silver chain of a pocket watch dangled. They both took in the fine way she dressed, for a woman, but were confused at her bare feet. Both men studied her appearance as she drew a filigreed watch from the tiny pocket on her vest, and her brow furrowed as she studied the watch in turn. Her lips moved as she counted the minutes, then she turned to look at the height of the sun in the cloudless blue sky.

Her face lit up. "It's TEA time! Oh, how I enjoy tea time," she chirped with glee, and spun gracefully on one nimble foot and quickly took Samson's reins in her fingers. "If you gentlemen would excuse me, I must set my dear old man off to the grass, but I would be DELIGHTED if you'd join me for tea! Oh! How few join me, but I can tell, you fellows are a far stretch from the crass individuals that I usually cross. PLEASE say you'll join me!" she begged, her face a reflection of youthful exhuberance and childish hope.

How could they say no?

Billy's stomach knotted in bold nervousness, but looking to Goodnight, how his smile grew with intrigue and delight on his face. The cold knife in his gut released for a moment, replaced with a careful watchfulness. He would keep his guard up, always protective over Goody, but his heart could not deny him this sentiment as the older man glowed.

The woman guided the begrudging animal to the thick green that blanketed the trail beside them, pulling the curious wagon to the side of the road, then locking the brake as she whispered lovingly to the horse. She removed his bridle to allow him access to the deep grass he clearly desired. "One moment," she barked cheerfully as she disappeared into the wagon from the back. They stepped forward a few feet, taking in the intricate carvings along the brightly painted blue window frame, the deep red of the eaves. Steps at the back led into a Dutch door that swung open in two parts. The top was open and pinned in place, leaving the bottom closed. They could hear her whispering something within. She appeared again, a basin full of water in her hands, head down as she contemplated her move down the steps through furrowed brow.

Goodnight stepped up, ever the gentleman, and held up his hands to take the basin. "Madam, allow me, please. That tumble does not look a delight, in any form, and it would be a shame if I allowed it."

  
She looked up, and smiled brightly, handing the basin down to him after a moment's hesitation. "By all means, my thanks."

He took the basin in hand and she stepped down, clutching her robes. She could see that he had no intention to give the basin back, so with a curt nod of her head, a wordless thanks, she motioned to the horse nosing through the grass. "Samson will need water. No doubt, your own mounts could use a little drink and food. Would be cruel of us to enjoy a spot of relaxation while denying the same to those who work hardest for us, n'est pas?"

Goody huffed, amused at his own language being levied at him. "Where are you from, again?" he asked as he sat the basin down in time for Samson's massive nose to sink into the cold water to noisily slurp. Their own horses anxiously pawed at the grass and nosed around to the basin curiously. Billy, ever observant, took the reins from the Cajun's hand to guide their mounts towards the grass where the large beast occupied himself. Goody noticed the thick tufts of fur that hid powerful hooves, trimmed neatly, black and white skirts billowing around his each step. "And where did you find this gorgeous animal? I've never seen his like!"

She smiled as he stood, running her fingers through the horses soft mane. "I'm from everywhere, nae chingu."

Billy's face went white and he turned slowly, wishing he could see into the mysterious woman. Everything in his body was telling him to run, his nerves strung tightly and itching for the feel of his knives. He wanted to grab Goody and flee, but Goodnight was entranced, and he knew nothing would shake his love's curiosity.

"You pick up different languages from your travels, then," Goody resolved, and Billy felt his nerves rattle less, but still, that need to escape kept his muscles knotted.

She smiled as she moved back to the door of her wagon, nodding as her black robes fluttered in the breeze when she turned, a dancer's flair in her tiny feet. "I've been everywhere. Everywhere, there are people like me. Cast out, forgotten, human cattle looked upon with disdain for varied reasons, not the least the color of our skin or the name of our gods. Barred from the 'American dream', such as it is," she seemed to spit her last words with disgust, a break in the slow, poetic rhythm of her words, and suddenly Billy felt sympathetic, too.

He knew that stereotypical dream, one that had carried him hopefully through illness and starvation over endless seas, down the docks into swirling human masses in San Francisco. He had heard whispers of it along train-lines as he hammered his way through prayers that he would soon see a future. It had lead him to murder his way out of that end where he had seen countless men work themselves to death to be buried in unmarked graves beside an infant railroad. He had fought for it with fists and fire and hammered steel until he found his face painted on warrants, until a man came along to give it to him freely and without cost or care. Suddenly, he felt a sense of calm, of carefully measured trust in a woman that echoed his past so colorfully. He could see, in her, the trials and tribulations that he had waded through to his current forever in Goody. A woman that told his story.

She motioned to the door of the wagon, and with another flourish of her arm, that delicate hand motioned to the steps. Goody took her free hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles again. A growl of jealousy almost escaped his lips as his lover released her hand and turned to him, motioning to the steps himself.

"Oh no, ma cherie, appre vous," he crooned, his words dripping from his lips like honey, and she smiled, her face flushing again.

With a curt bow of her head, she stepped up to open the door and she turned to speak, not to either of them, but to something, or someone, inside. "We have guests, my love. Please be on your best behavior?"

Goodnight stepped into the wagon and was taken aback at the richly decorated interior. Each surface seemed to glitter gold and silver, from the small potbelly stove and it's chrome trimmings, to the shelves that lined each side of the expansive inside. It hadn't looked this big from outside, but now that both stood inside, it was comfortably roomy. There sat a hole where the basin that entertained their horses must have sat, below a massive ceramic jug that had a brightly polished spigot of brass. Books lined one side, held in place with a bright blue sashing, keeping them in place for when the wagon moved. On the other side, more shelves, but with dozens of glass jars full of herbs and dried flowers, some names which he recognised, and strangely, some that Billy recognised as well.

The wagon was impossibly long, longer than both of them had originally thought. At the end, where the window looked out over the driver, a large feather bed behind two curtains shot with gold and silver, bright blue, purple, teal twisting in mesmerizing patterns were pulled to reveal two posts holding a wooden beam up over the bed. The bed itself was thick, plush and surrounded by pillows, and Goodnight suddenly felt the pull of desire, of laying Billy down in the arms of such a luxury that he had hoped to embrace him in.

Here, the woman threw a few more sticks on the simmering coals in the potbelly stove, it's short chimney reaching through the top of the wall to their right. She had set a kettle on top and then pulled two hidden benches from under the bed, creating a place for them both to sit, and then, satisfied with herself, sat upon the bed, dusting off her feet and curling them under herself. With her left hand, she reached out and began to caress the large, sandy colored pillow next to her.

Goodnight turned to Billy and gently, silently, reminded him to remove his hat in polite company, and sat upon one of the benches. Reluctantly, Billy took the other one, settling his hat upon his knee and readjusting his knife belt for the most comfort. Billy had no quarrel with polite company, but the morning's actions had shook him, the terror on Goody's face shrinking away almost magically, and he approached the subject with his usual brunt force.

"What did you do? Before. With him," he jerked his head towards Goodnight, earning him a glare for his too-forward question.

Her head snapped in Billy's direction, her jaw set as she studied him, and her hand stilled on the pillow she had been stroking. It was then the pillow looked up.

"Dawn..." she said with a warning, never taking her eyes from Billy, staring into the darkness he held within. "No good to be impolite to our company. Settle, love. Settle."

The pillow rumbled a purr, then motioned to move it's head into her lap, and Goodnight startled.

"You got a..." he checked his voice, and instead of a terrified scream, let out an angry hiss. "You have a goddamn mountain lion in here??"

"Aww.... Dawn here is about as far from lion as one can get, at least around people. She's a lover, isn't she, Dawny..." she purred as she caressed a thick ear, rubbing it between her fingers before she began scratching absently at the top of the massive cat's head.

"How did you.. I mean, what..." he stumbled over the words.

She smiled innocently, affectionately looking at the animal as she smoothed a hand over it's flank, receiving a sweet purr that sounded like distant thunder. "She was hunted, too," she answered simply. "All of us, refugees..."

This last answer shook the words from Billy finally, with a renewed anger, "What did you do?"

The woman sighed heavily, removing the cat's head from her lap as she stood, excusing herself past the two men to the stove, where the kettle had begun it's high pitched howl. She wrapped the long, wide sleeve of her robe around one hand, taking the handle firmly and placing it on the cabinet below the books beside the stove. Her back to them, her shoulders sank. "I don't know," her voice choked, head lowered as she turned to look along the jars of herbs, and filling two tiny silver tea presses. Billy recognized them as Chinese in their make. 

"Who are you?" he pressed, his words short and temper starting to grow visibly. Goody raised a hand, stopping himself before he could grasp Billy's knee to calm him. While Goodnight obviously felt no ill will, the assassin felt ready to snap, and stood before he could be stopped. The wagon was larger than either of them figured, but there were few steps until Billy towered over her, even though he was the smaller of the two men. "What. Did. You. Do?" he growled low through his teeth, his voice dark and silken.

The woman turned to look up at him, her face resolved in it's surrender, and she looked past the man that glowered over her to the mountain lion on the bed, which had looked up to watch for it's human in care. "It's okay, Dawny. Lay down, baby girl," she purred, then finally looked up at Billy with tired eyes. "Please," she pled, canting her head in the direction of the benches. "Please... sit and I'll explain."

  
"Billy," Goodnight barked shortly. "Reserve some decorum, cher. Give the woman some time. It's obvious..."

  
"It's obvious she's hiding something," he finished quietly, his face as stony as his namesake and never taking his eyes away from hers.

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating Billy's visage for a moment, and then she lowered her head and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh. "If you sit, I will talk." It was a resigned voice, quiet, and it made Goodnight ache to embrace her in compassion. Billy merely wanted to shake the truth from her. "Please," she said again, pleading. "Sit. The kettle will go cold." And with that, she turned her back on him. He was left surprised that someone would turn away from him, leaving their back so exposed and open to attack. While he could feel dishonesty in her presence, he could not perceive a threat.

He stepped the few paces back to sit back on the bench, and watched as the woman, humming to herself, poured the hot water into the tea presses. It's fragrance filled the small space with the scent of a dozen different herbs, root and leaf and petal. In a moment, she turned with two steaming tea cups, and with a smile, stepped to them. "Mr Robicheaux, if you would satisfy my curiosity, tell me your opinion," she said with a small grin as she handed the saucer to him.

His hand was steady as he took it gingerly, appraising the finely painted porcelain, obviously of quality. He took in the delicate scent drifting delicately in the steam that curled away. His brows knit together. "Is... is that mint I'm catching?"

She nodded emphatically as she turned to hand a saucer to Billy. "I collect herbs. And you, sir... May I call you Billy, or..."

He was silent as he took the tea, watching her warily as he looked into the light amber green water. "Green tea," he said shortly, more in question than a statement, and she nodded solemnly to him, her smile still present but sad. Behind her, Goodnight took a tentative sip of his tea, and expressed delight loudly.

  
"Oh, good Lord, it's been so long since I've enjoyed something of this manner. This is... This is Louisiana tea! Mint and sugar and... this is a wonder, miss..." He stopped and looked at her as she retrieved her own tea, turned to the bed, then settled herself again, only to have her lap claimed by the lion in her bed. "What shall we call you?" Goodnight asked flippantly, but with a genuine curiosity.

She turned and opened the window over the bed, and with the door half open, it invited a delightful Spring breeze that tunneled through and took the heat the potbelly stove produced out into the cool day. Settling herself, feet curled underneath herself again, she studied her own tea for a moment, then lifted the cup in contemplation. "Chai. This is the tea of India, a sweet mix of cream, tea, and sugar, and half a dozen spices. It warms the heart and soothes the soul." Trading looks to both of them, she lifted it for a moment, and before drinking, she said, "Salud."

Billy watched Goody and the woman sip warily at the hot tea, and he hesitated for a moment that it might be poisoned, before taking a small sip himself. The fragrance drifted over his tongue and reminded him, for a moment, of the home he could barely remember, and despite his vigilance, he could feel himself relax.

She took the cup in both hands and looked down into the liquid in contemplation, before taking a deep breath, and fixing her eyes on Billy, and she fixed her jaw. "The name I was given is long ago and far away, in a different country. It's no longer relevant, that old thing. It doesn't fit me anymore. But I was once called," she began with a deep breath, her head bowing as it rolled off her tongue, a musical thing, "Augustina Gratiana Elizabetta Provenzano."

Billy's gut twisted again. He wanted to be angry. His main concern had yet to be addressed. The corner of his lip couldn't help but curling in recognition of irony as he silently rolled the name about in his head. He could see it as plainly as he saw his own, true name, but attempting to play her identity across his tongue would be as awkward as Goodnight attempting to say his.

She looked at Goodnight, her eyes then shifting sadly to Billy. "I would not have told you my name... had you not agreed to tea. No one comes for tea," she finished softly before continuing. "I don't..." She took a sip of her tea, and both men could see that her hands were shaking, a white knuckled grip on the fine cup.

Goody moved to press a comforting hand to her knee, hesitating for a moment in fear of the massive feline curling around her, but then lay his palm to her. "Don't. It hurts, I can see. You don't have to continue."

  
Augustina shook her head. "No. It has to come out sometime. It's been trapped far too long, and we all need someone to... talk to. A catharsis... If I speak..." Her face turned to the door, and they both could see, in her small, wistful smile, all of the emotion she had trapped inside. Goodnight felt a lurch of compassion as she continued, shaking her head as she returned to look into her cup. "I don't know why, but... I trust you two," she said as she traded a studious glance between them both, which they shared between themselves.

Billy sucked down the rest of the tea quickly, throwing his head back to catch each drop, before grabbing his hat. "We have to be going."

Goodnight's jaw dropped before he stood and took Billy by the arm, turning their backs to the woman so Goody could whisper, almost angrily, in the younger man's ear. "No. Stay. Just for a moment. I want to hear."

"Goody," Billy growled low, almost in warning. "Something isn't right here. And your passion for good stories could put us in unnecessary trouble..."

  
"This isn't my passion for stories," he growled back, his voice a hiss until he caught sight of a few volumes on the bookshelf, their titles and author's names.

Walt Whitman.

Here, Goodnight stood straight, his height over Billy clear in the small space, asserting himself with straight shoulders. "Billy Rocks, I am going to stay and listen. I go where you go, you know this, but I have to stay and hear this out. I'm asking you, cher, to stay with me," he purred as his voice softened, his lips dangerously close to Billy's ear, enough that Billy could just barely feel those delicious lips against the curl of his soft, golden flesh.

"Not here," he growled in low warning, that whisper soft hot air against him making heat pool in his stomach at the worst possible time.

"Her books, Billy. Look at her books."

  
Billy turned to look at the volumes, nice and neat, still held with the bit of blue sashing, but still readable. He recognised a few books, including the ones Goodnight hinted at. He turned to look up into his lover's shining blue eyes, and with a heavy sigh, turned back to the bench he had been occupying. "Fine," he relented coldly.

"I'm sorry..." Augustina whispered sadly. "I didn't mean to..."

Goodnight was quick to stop her. "Nothing to worry you about, cher, not at all." He readjusted his coat before he sat, undoing one of the buttons on his coat to relax and crossing his legs as he leaned back against the joyfully colored wall. "Just a minor discussion, none of your concern. Now, you just go ahead, talk to your heart's content. We're listening," he finished, flashing a look of warning to Billy before turning his attention back to the woman, his brows knitted in concern and interest.

She cautiously looked to both of them, one concerned, the other seemed ready to lash out at any wrong word or movement, and then she took a deep breath, stilling the shake in her shoulders. She lowered her head once again, in hopes they wouldn't see the flush of her cheeks or the glassy appearance of her eyes as they threatened tears.

"I would never have shared my name," she repeated slowly, "... had you not joined me for tea. Not many in the mood for hospitality out here, I find. It is the will of my ancestors to travel the land, singing and trading stories for good company, to hear stories of others' who's paths we cross. It's important, those little traditions." Goody smiled sympathetically as she continued. "I barely remember home... Italia, Romania... I remember fire. The long trip here, hopes of a better tomorrow. M'ma soothed us, my brothers and myself. Sang when we took sick on the trip, lullabies, stories of home before the fire." She went silent for a moment, fidgeting with the cup before she drained it without grace, and sat it aside, still refusing to look up in shame of her burgeoning tears, her voice deep with emotion. "We got here, and found, after our initial arrival, that the fire was the same here as it was there. Gypsies, they screamed angrily. My brothers and I were working on this _vardo_, preparing to flee west, when they came for us. M'ma kept the barn door closed while we hitched Samson... my beautiful Samson... We watched from a distance, dragging her out into the middle of town, a stake surrounded with kindling..." her voice broke, and Goody lay another calming hand upon her knee, ignoring the gentle rumble from the mountain lion, and as two tears escaped her closed eyes, she hoped her head was low enough they couldn't see.

"Lord have mercy, they didn't..." Goodnight spoke softly, as if he were the one trying to calm the spooked horse that Billy had seen in him earlier.

She nodded emphatically. "Yes. Yes, they did. Witch, they screamed with torches. Witch..." she murmured softly, her voice shaking. That cold steel deep in his chest and Billy was hit with a pang of sympathy, a wish to cross paths with those who had hurt a woman so. He didn't want to hear the rest of her story, far too close to his own, but she kept speaking softly. "Witch. We had different words for our ways, every culture does. And every culture I've come across despises us, fears us, tries to," she swallowed hard. "Tries to be rid of us like we're vermin... Like a bad omen."

Goody swallowed hard, the desire to repair her honor like a gentleman. He couldn't help but feel a fire within that called for the need to help her seek revenge, despite his fear of that rifle that sat in his saddle's holster. He knew all too well what hate that his fellow countrymen were capable of. He grit his teeth, his heart heavy for her story, almost dreading her next words, but his love of stories kept him rooted to his seat. His hand was a comforting weight on her knee, and he curled his fingers, a gentle squeeze of comfort. "It's alright, cher, you don't have to..."

She could feel the salt tear tracks dried on her face when she looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. "But then, you'd wonder where my brothers could have gone, and why I'm pulling a stubbornly loyal beast across endless green pastures, yes?"

Augustina was right. The older man's curiosity could be seen in his eyes, glowing on the edge of desire and hunger for more words. He was right in assuming that she would prove to be a marvelous conversationalist, a glorious weaver of tales and he could sit and listen to the music of her voice for ages. The gift of her people was plain to see in her speech, quite clear and without accent. "Did you have an accent? You said you were from... Italy? Romania?" he asked, near trembling to hear her speak.

Billy rolled his eyes at him, but he felt just as pulled into her story, regardless of the sickening pull of familiarity in her trials. He leaned back against the wall behind him, settling himself for the long haul as he realized that Goody wasn't going anywhere.

"I worked. For those new to a certain land, theatre is a foreigner's best friend, and the Romany have a gift for acting. It's in our blood. Once you learn how to conform to society around you, you learn that... people are more than happy to sell to someone with an American accent and white skin, than someone who speaks with the poetry of another world." Her face brightened a little. "More tea, gentlemen?"

Goody eagerly grasped his cup, "Oh yes, please! Billy, would you care for some more?"

Billy leveled a stern, uninterested look at him for a moment, before looking to Augustina, and grudgingly handed her his cup in a hand clothed in a fingerless leather glove. His nimble fingers deftly held the handle as she took it, and she stood after purring a few words into her cat's ear that resulted in it unfolding itself from around her. She busied herself in the making of their tea, and this time, she poured a cup of something else for herself, grabbing different herbs and powders to add to her own cup.

"What is that, you're putting in there?" Goody asked, genuinely interested.

"Ah, but this... this is a medicine," she replied with a glowing smile that cracked the sorrow that had masked her face. "A little of this, a little of that, and it... helps with pain," she finished, haltingly. She poured the hot water into the little silver containers that sat on top of their cups, and handed them to the men even as she finished her own.

"Pain, my dear?" Goodnight inclined, and then quite suddenly began to chastise himself. It wasn't his place to ask, an almost insulting inquiry if he had been in polite society again, the tea bringing to him memories of the polished white halls of his own home. "Forgive me, madam, it's not my place to pry..."

  
"Nonsense," she dismissed with a wave of her hand as she settled into the feather mattress again. "How are we to learn, if we don't ask questions?" She smiled smartly at him. "To let it out is to release that demon that persists in all men... and women," she added after a short pause. "That is, if its of no mind to you."

Goodnight affirmed his interest, under the thrall of another loquacious soul, and tried to get Billy to agree through that passive mask he wore, pleading to give in, and Goody, though it seemed he was beating against a locked door, knew Billy would indulge him. Augustina's attention turned to the sun, no longer touching the horizon, shining brightly through the half open door of the wagon and creeping slowly across the polished wooden floor. "Gentlemen, I do say, if you do intend to bless me with further company, I should say that we find a way off the beaten path, perhaps somewhere with water for the horses?"

The two men traded looks, and Billy rolled his eyes emphatically at both of them and stood, sitting his empty cup on the bench he sat upon. "I think I saw a small path a little ways back while I was riding this way," is all he said before disappearing out of the door. Dawn raised her massive head to watch, bored, as he went.

Goodnight turned his attention back to her, his face beaming though he bore the heartache of her story, a story he had heard from his partner, similar, with it's own deviations. However, his heart was embroiled with her words, alight with fascination behind her obvious talent in spinning tales. "Now, my dear, let us get your magnificent beast harnessed, and we shall find a lovely place to settle down for the time being." Here, he took her hand in his, a valiant gesture as he brushed his lips across her knuckles once more before covering her hand with his other. "You've a gift I've found rarely in any other who's paths we've crossed, and I am enraptured by your song, ma cherie."

Augustina smiled gently, sadly, down into his beaming face that attempted to hide the pain within his oddly wet blue eyes. She leaned forward, her words barely perceptible. "Your partner is a very lucky man," she whispered, and he sat up straight, his face blanching as his hands tightened around hers. 

"I've no idea what you mean," he said shortly.

"Walt Whitman."

  
His face heated, the tips of his ears burning bright red at the words as he ducked his head to peer coyly from beneath his lashes. "But how did you..."

  
Augustina leaned back, gently extracting her hand as she patted his with the free one. "The way you talk to him, pleading. The way you look to him, glowing. The secret smiles, when you think no one sees you. It's not hard to see, when you yourself are attempting to hide... or are a fan of Whitman yourself," she concluded, sitting up to look at him slyly through long eyelashes, her smile still present, but her words soft and calm, as if she were trying to coax a wild animal into peace.

His head canted slightly, his eyes raked over hers with an air of concern, yet narrowed. The pieces began to fall into place as to her identity, but still, he needed to learn more, hear more. "Wait a moment. You've lost someone, haven't you?" he countered gently.

Augustina's face beamed, the mask in place once more as she removed the cat's head from her lap and stood, standing over him. For a brief moment, she seemed a little taller as she asserted herself and squared her shoulders, readying for the physical labor and ride ahead. She stopped to bow her head curtly. "Ah, but that's part of a story reserved for late nights around campfires, dripping in the honeyed gold of whiskey and comfortably drowsy in good smoke."

"My dear," he crooned as she passed, taking up his hat and standing to follow her, "you've a real talent. Why not make your fortunes on books? It's not hard to see that you've a miraculous gift," he said with a smile as he stepped down from the wagon.

Augustina began pulling Samson away from the grass and Goody's horse, backing him with ease into the supports of the wagon's harness, to be shooed away by the older man's hands. "Now, now, now, what kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady to such a laborious job? Please, allow me."

Smiling, she stepped aside and let the man secure the leather straps and fit the yoke to the wagon's arms, his nimble fingers seemingly practiced in his movements. As he finished, Billy cantered up from the direction they had originally come, the direction she had been headed, passive and calm but a little winded. He was judging with those eyes as if he still didn't believe this woman was real, or at least, really who she said she was. The story unnerved him, too close to home, too similar. Her behavior had sent every warning bell in his head, every nerve in his body into an electric fire of... something. He couldn't determine if there was something cruel behind her eyes, but having seen her image upon the horizon, approaching like some Reaper finally caught up with Goodnight, he wanted to wring her until every word she hid fell out. That was just it, though. He wanted to hear those words, for her to complete what she was saying so he could piece together her full intention, as long as it didn't hurt his lover. Even if she were some Reaper, short in stature and gifted with song, here upon their path whether it be for him or Goodnight, she would die before he let her make her move.

His stomach had dropped as he began the ride back, that very thought shaking him to the core, when he had realized he had willingly left Goodnight with her. Just as the glittering water of the Brazos River shone through the laurels and the pecan, he wheeled his mount and spurred her back to where he had left them, just in case she wasn't as innocent as she seemed, just in case he had left his Goody with something truly deadly. They existed back in Jeoson, too, dark things that would come for one's souls, long bony fingers to snatch painfully and drag into Hell. He had seen one before, watched one move along silently through the alleyways of home, reaching down to relieve a beggar or elderly of their life, and occasionally, a child. All went kicking and screaming, Death's face terrifying and bone white with demon's pallor, mouth lined with broken or jagged blood-stained teeth and wrapped in filthy black rags.

Panic, a knife in his gut, twisted as he saw the top of the wagon from over the tall, undulating sea of still-green wheat, and he turned his own mare to cut through the field. He slowed into an unhurried canter when he saw the two of them cheerfully step from the wagon. He saw his Goody nonchalantly rest the hat on his head as he took the tack from the woman, and he schooled his breath and face into his studied demeanor. His heart stopped it's attempts to leap from his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the clutching in his breast to die, and he swore deeply in his mother tongue that he would never leave Goody alone like this again.

He let his eyes wander around the horizon that surrounded him, then turned back to Goodnight, not bothering to acknowledge Augustina out of annoyance and distrust. "A path we passed leads just over the next hill. We're just down river from some place called 'Washington-on-the-Brazos'. No idea what that might mean, but there's water and trees. It's a little early for camp," he concluded.

Augustina hitched herself up into the buckboard, and shed the robe before taking a seat. "Oh! I'll cook! I do so love guests! Lunch AND dinner. I promise, you won't be let down. Languages and skills aren't all I was taught, good sirs. Please..." she paused, turning to put the top of the robe through the window. As she looked back at them, they heard a growl and they watched, almost amused, as the cloth disappeared through the window with a formidable paw. "Dawny, don't kill it. Now, gentlemen, please. Allow me the honor."

Billy turned away on his horse, but still caught the pouty, pleading look on Goodnight's face. He hated that look. That look that could con anything out of Billy, something he had no guard, no weapon against. He smiled a mirthless smile, showing teeth as he looked down at his saddle, his half gloved hands, anything except Goodnight's watery azul gaze. He relented with a growl of disdain and despite wanting to take his man and leave this... trickster, this woman of dubious intent, he stilled his expressions and looked to Goody, then to her.

"Follow me," is all he said in his silky deep voice, and Goodnight sighed, shaking his head as he stood up in his stirrup to sling a long leg over his saddle. Billy had already spurred his horse into a slow, plodding walk back the way they had come.

Goodnight tipped his head with a smile to Augustina, then caught up to Billy easily. "What the hell is going on with you, mon amor?"

Billy turned to him, acting casually as not to give away the intent of his words to the woman that had begun following behind, her wagon a clatter of noises as it moved over the dirt road. "Do you remember what happened when you rode up on us?" He was answered with a blank stare and it was all Billy could do not to pull his mare to a halt and grab Goodnight. "She touched you," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Goody chuckled from the sheer ridiculousness. "Why, Billy Rocks, I had no idea you were that much the jealous type. I am flattered, but it was only a touch. Never had you so riled before, not even when I've..."

Billy glared at him, and it was enough to stop the flood of words. "No. No, you were in a full blown panic when you rode up on us, you were close to foaming at the mouth, Goody, and all she did was lay a hand on you, and I watched... I saw..."  
"Billy," his lover pleaded with a soft voice.

"I don't even KNOW what I saw her do, but there you were, suddenly calm as you please. What the hell happened?" he hissed angrily from between a toothy grin that belied the venom behind each word.

Goodnight shook his head slowly, marking the distance between them and the sound of Augustina's wagon. "I don't know, Billy..." he growled quietly.

  
"Then how can you agree to talk with her, sit, HAVE TEA, for fuck's sake!"

  
Goodnight looked up at the sky, taking a deep, measured breath as he contemplated the words that would come from his pursed lips, his face the image of a man in deep thought. "Back home, there was a woman, Marie LaVeau," here, Goodnight spat on the ground. "Superstition dictates one should answer that name in such manner. Anyways, she is a voodoo queen, a priestess that is widely and worldly recognized as someone you don't wanna cross, don't wanna invoke in any manner. New Orleans is awash with such things, it was rampant among the... men and women that worked the fields. You could hear them dancing, drums at night around huge pyres that lept high in the sky, but these men and women would leap over those flames, magic running through their veins. Witches exist back home. Respected, revered. Feared. Loved," he ended, the last word strong on his lips.

"Witches," Billy said simply, his word colored with disbelief.

"What?" Goodnight said, turning to him with that crooked grin. "Don't have anything like them in Jeoson?"

Billy glared at Goody as if he were trying to bore a hole through him, but the older man recognised the glint in the Asian's eye told him more, told him that Billy was actually remembering back across the sea. The tense silence was finally broken by Billy turning his horse down the small path that he had found earlier, leaving Goodnight waiting for Augustina to catch up, replying in the wind, "Something like that," and Goodnight felt that he might have touched a nerve, tickled a memory, and opened a wound. The area that Billy had found was a secretive copse of trees that secluded them once they were behind low reaching boughs of pecan and oak. The river stretched out along the side of the copse, blue and brown as the Brazos is wont to be. The boughs stretched out far, providing a roof that the sun had difficulty in breaking through, but the grass was lush beneath them nonetheless. The breeze that freshened the great green ancients that reached above was refreshing to not only them, but the humans that now stopped their mounts below, and studied their natural construction, admiring Nature's hands.

It was Goodnight that broke the silence. "Well, now, Billy, this is just about as pretty as you please. Always count on you to find the very best in accommodation that God's Great Outdoors has to offer."

  
Billy snorted as he dismounted, unimpressed by his partner's joviality, and tied his animal to one of the trees that both allowed for shade, water, and grass, silent in his duties, but shooting Goodnight a very obvious, 'Don't Say I Didn't Warn You' look over his shoulder as he worked.

Augustina pulled the wagon to a stop just as Goodnight snorted, irritated but not surprised by Billy's behavior. She flashed him a gentle smile as she stood up against the buckboard and gauged where might be a good spot to pull the wagon out of sight. She then urged the horse to move in a musical, calming tongue that Goody had no recognition of. The horse pulled the heavy wagon into the grass before she dismounted, a quick flurry of subdued and bright blues, and dark auburn hair that was beginning to come loose from the knot on the back of her head. She had the reins in one hand and stamped across the ground before pulling the horse along behind her, feeling the softness of the ground, and Goodnight smiled. The majority of wagoners he'd ever met never had the sense to do such a thing, instead leaving it to a trail-boss to arrange things, taking the risk, or never leaving the road. The wagon fit snugly between the trees, moving slowly behind the woman until a small clearing. It was more than comfortably large enough to allow for the wagons, the men and their gear, and a nice fire. Together, the three of them set about to making camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The medication in Augustina's tea is based on my own tea mixture that I take to deal with chronic pain. It is a real thing, a tree leaf and all natural.  
Dried powdered milk was created for the public in 1832, it's not a stretch to imagine that Augustina would have some for her tea, cuz frankly, the mixture tastes terrible and I made sure the timeline would allow for durable portable creamer.


End file.
